


Sub Rosa

by malcs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, not-actually-incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malcs/pseuds/malcs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beauty and the Beast, starring Sam and Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written July 9, 2008, for the Supernatural Big Bang. Art was by dreamlittleyo, and can be found here: http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com/51246.html
> 
> Check it out, and compliment the holy heck out of her.

Once upon a time, there was a rich and handsome merchant named John Winchester. He owned a shipping company and had three wonderful children. He had two beautiful daughters named Hope and Faith, each with many suitors and many dresses, similar enough in looks and character to be mistaken for each other. They were twenty and nineteen, and beginning to wonder if they were perhaps too old to still be unmarried. 

The youngest of the three was tall and straight as an evergreen, with hair the colour of chestnuts, and had a face so ordinary that remembering him was a challenge. He was just past seventeen, with everything that age implied. He had spots, and occasionally sulked, and was, at this point in his life, made up entirely of elbows and knees. In his youth, his lovely sisters had, for their own reasons, called him Beauty. This unfortunate name had stuck.

The sisters went to ball after ball, received many proposals of marriage, and gave John headaches. Beauty, meanwhile, spent much of his time in his father’s library, reading and growing pale. The Winchester library was not very big, so Beauty spent much of his time re-reading what had already been read and making half-hearted attempts to learn his father’s business.

“It will be my legacy to you,” John was fond of saying as he passed Beauty the potatoes while the sisters giggled. “You’ll be rich, and able to take care of your sisters.”

“Oh Papa,” said Faith, daintily buttering a bun, “of course we’ll be married by then, with our own rich husbands to love and care for us.” Hope smiled gently and nodded.

“Ah, my wonderful family.” John beamed and squeezed Faith’s hand.

Beauty ate his potatoes.

:::

In May, John sent the _Colt_ , the _Singer_ , and the _Mary_  out to sea. They were due back in November. They were his finest ships, and his fortune rested upon their safe and prosperous return. Beauty knew this. His sisters did not.

:::

In November, the three ships did not return. John was beyond distraught. His creditors began clamouring at his door, scenting blood. Beauty watched his father tell his sisters that everything was all right throughout the day, and heard the sounds of his worried pacing at night.

:::

In January, John’s lies could not cover the fact that their possessions had to be sold to pay their debts. 

Faith and Hope cried as their beautiful gowns and their jewels were sold. They held hands and tried to dry their tears when their father walked by. They must be brave, they had decided, for their father’s sake. They had told Beauty this, their eyes red and lips trembling, the night before. He had merely added another book to the stack that was to be sold.

:::

By the end of the week, almost everything had been sold. They had traded their highbred horses for some bow-backed ponies and provisions, and they rode out of the seaside city that had been their home for as long as the Winchester children could remember. 

John, Hope, and Faith waved to the small gathering of friends that had stayed with them through their ordeal until they were out of sight.

Beauty didn’t look back.

:::

Their new house was on the outskirts of a town called Stanbrooke, which contained a church, a blacksmith, a pub and inn, and an apothecary. It was bleak and sparse, and Beauty in particular noticed the lack of any kind of bookstore at all. As they moved what little furniture they had into the house, a small group of people – Beauty had a feeling that for this place, it was a downright mob – came up the lane to greet them.

A good-looking woman about John’s age stepped forward. 

“Hello strangers,” she said, thrusting her hand forward. Faith and Hope exchanged glances. The woman noticed and gave a crooked smile. “We don’t stand much on ceremony here, ladies. I’m Ellen.” 

“John,” John said, and kissed her hand. Hope and Faith put their heads together and giggled. Two young men stepped forward and swept their ragged caps off their heads. They looked as much like alike as the two Winchester girls, and their smiles came easy.

“Hello,” they said together.

“I’m Andrew-” said one, “-and I’m Ash,” said the other. Faith and Hope curtsied and introduced themselves. The two men took their bags into the house, the blushing girls trailing after.

“This is my daughter Jo,” Ellen told Beauty, pulling Jo in close. She was a lovely girl, blond hair and blue eyes, and made Beauty long for his books.

“This is Samuel,” John said, a twinkle in his eyes for the first time since the ships failed to come home. “But we all call him Beauty.”

Beauty sighed and the women laughed gaily. “Then Beauty you shall be,” Jo said smartly, “no matter how little it suits you.”

“Jo!” Ellen said, shocked.

“Oh, no matter,” John said, beckoning them into the house. “Beauty has thick skin.”

Flushing, Beauty followed them in.

:::

Their life in Stanbrooke was pleasant, if hard. Beauty gained calluses from chopping wood and poor posture from the low ceilings of his attic bedroom. He forgot the feel of a book in his hands, of the grit in his eyes from a long night’s read. He longed for a warm bath with rich scented soap or the light of a candle burning long into the night. These desires made him frown with shame, for he ought to be focusing on their new life.

Hope and Faith, he knew, felt much the same as he did. One night, he had wobbled unsteadily past their shared bedroom after a long day of chopping the dark and overgrown forest back from their field and had heard the unmistakable sounds of stifled sobbing. But during the day their faces shone with sweat and contentment as they cleaned the house and made food. 

At first, their cooking had been barely edible, and John and Beauty had choked it down with barely suppressed grimaces. After strenuous lessons with the widow Ellen, however, their soup had become liquid and their bread light and fluffy, and meals were eaten with pleasure. Ellen’s name was one praised loud and often within the Winchester household.

After almost a year in this small town, filled with fixing up their small house, clearing the field, and planting and harvesting the crops, they were all in higher spirits. Their life was simple, for they had barely enough money to get by, but they were closer than they had even been. 

Beauty grew taller, until Faith had laughingly called him a giant, and he developed a tan over the paper-white of his skin. He built up muscle over his thin frame that filled out his shoulders and arms and discovered a talent for carpentry hitherto unrealised. His spots retreated, his sulks decreased, and he grew long, lithe limbs in the place of his joints.

John and Ellen, meanwhile, had gotten quite close, as had Hope and Andy, and Faith and Ash. Beauty and Jo had become close as well, but only as friends. She listened eagerly to his tales of the city, asking him question after question until he’d told her he spent most of his life inside. He visited her and her mother at the inn often, helping to close the bar. Ellen beamed and left them alone, and Jo and Beauty left her with her fantasies.

:::

In December, with just three weeks until Christmas, a man came to the Winchester home, wearing tattered clothes and riding an exhausted horse. He asked for John, and said he came from the city. Faith, who had answered the door, curtsied and invited him in, giving him food and drink while Hope ran for her father and Beauty led the tired horse to their meagre barn.

The family assembled around the kitchen’s rough-hewn table and watched as John gave a shout of joy. The stranger stood, bearded face creased in a smile, and the two embraced.

“Bobby!” John laughed, and slapped the man on the back. It was the first mate of the _Singer_ , looking much older than the last time he’d been seen. At John’s urging, and after a refill of his glass, Bobby began his story.

The three ships had set off with the winds of fortune in their sails. Two weeks into their journey, a roiling dark cloud had been seen on the horizon, moving so fast towards them that Bobby swore it had been alive. Yellow balls of lightening had boiled across the cloud’s surface, and a few lucky sailors had jumped overboard at the first sight of that awful glare and drowned among the sinister dancing waves.

The  _Mary_ , by far the proudest of the three, had been the first casualty. She had burned, and one hundred souls had fallen with her. The  _Colt_  had been lost to the waves, while the  _Singer_  managed to make it close enough to a tiny island to breach herself on a reef, and stranded the fifty remaining sailors on these foreign shores. 

There they lived, at first in harmony, until one by one they were picked off by an unknown foe. Bobby had been the first to realise it was Ava, the scullery maid, who was killing his men. With a roar, he’d launched himself on her until she broke and sobbed that the storm had pierced her dreams and promised her fame and fortune in exchange for the sailors’ deaths. Bobby cut off her head in the sand as dawn broke bloody over the ocean.

He’d spotted a ship sailing on the horizon soon after, signalled them in close enough to make it aboard, and had thusly made it back to the port town that the Winchesters had once, so very long ago it seemed, called home.

John wept for the sailors and the  _Colt_  and the  _Singer_  and most of all for the  _Mary_ , his favourite and most beloved ship. Bobby wept too, for his men and for Ava, and for John, whose last dream he knew he had shattered.

“John,” he said, when at last they had dried their eyes. “There is a small amount of cargo left, that which I managed to salvage from the wreck of the  _Singer_. And a fine ship she was, too.” The family toasted to her memory.

“You-” John paused, cleared his throat. “You managed to salvage something?”

“Aye,” Bobby nodded as Hope refilled his cup. “Not much, to be sure, but I’ve left what little there was with Master Gordon, down at the docks. He’s waiting for you to decide what to do with it.”

“Ah, Gordon,” John said thoughtfully. “A sad man, that Gordon, but good enough at his core.”

“Driven,” Beauty supplied, and all nodded.

“Well, I must go back to the city,” John said, setting his cup down. “You shall spend the night, of course, and we shall set out in the morning.”

Bobby gave a grateful smile, and heaved himself to his feet. He settled his ever-present cap more firmly onto his head.

“You shall have my room,” Beauty told him, and stood also. “I shall sleep elsewhere tonight.”

“Ah, yer too kind, lad.” Bobby gave him a watery smile, and Faith led him upstairs. 

The family went to sleep that night content with the knowledge that their fortune was forever lost to them.

:::

Before he left the next morning, John gathered his family around him. 

“Children,” he said, very serious. “Our fortune has been snatched from us by fate and a yellow-eyed cloud. However, a small something remains to us – the monies I receive from the sale of my goods. Much must go to Bobby, of course, for such heroic service in the face of such an unnatural series of events.” The family nodded solemnly. “But I should like to get you something from the city before I come home. Something that will remind you of our good times and of my love for you.”

“Oh Papa,” Hope cried, and hugged him. “I want for nothing from you, only your love.”

“Oh Papa,” Faith cried, and hugged him also. “I too want nothing, only your happiness.”

John’s face crumpled, and he offered to Hope, “A nice dress, perhaps?” She shook her head, lips trembling. “A string of precious gems?” he asked Faith, who merely wiped her eyes.

“Oh, where would we wear them around here?” Hope demanded, scrubbing angrily at her apron. “Bring us some sensible cloth to make some sensible dresses and enough money to buy a cow and maybe a horse, and we shall be happy.”

Faith agreed mutely, then burst suddenly into giggles. “Imagine, sister, our asking for sensible cloth!”

Hope managed a chortle. “And a cow!”

They laughed together, the sound of a shattered past, and John turned his swimming eyes to his son.

“Beauty,” he whispered, voice cracking. The sisters’ laughter cut off as quickly as it had come. “Surely, you would ask something of me?”

“Yes Beauty, ask for a hen,” Faith said, her weariness evident in her voice.

Beauty took a moment to think. “I would have some rose seeds,” he said finally. “To plant in the garden. Yes, I think some seeds are in order.”

John’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Of course my boy, some seeds you shall have.”

And with that, he clapped his hat on his head, kissed his children goodbye, and strode out of the house.

:::

The journey to the city took a week, at a leisurely pace, and so when John was not home almost three weeks later, the Winchester children could no longer avoid the worry that permeated the house.

“Oh, imagine if we lost Papa,” Hope cried out one storming winter night as they sat around the fireplace.

Faith immediately shushed her. “Don’t be stupid,” she scolded, and turned to her brother for help. “I’m sure Papa is fine, isn’t he Beauty?”

The snow rapped angrily at the window as Beauty let out a derisive snort. “We all must die at some point,” he said, and left his sisters crying by the fire.

:::

The next night, just as prayers were being said over dinner, the front door burst open. Faith ran into the front room, and her glad cry of “Papa!” brought Hope and Beauty running after her.

“Oh Papa,” Hope exclaimed, and hurried to shut the door. It had not let up snowing since the afternoon before, and the night outside was black as coal.

“Are you all right?” Faith asked, helping her father with his coat.

“No,” he wheezed, and the children gasped at the sight of his face. He had aged twenty years since they had last seen him, and his rich black hair was now threaded through with grey.

“Papa, whatever has happened to you?”

“Get me a drink, my dear, and some warm food and the fire, and I shall tell you all I know.”

While the girls hurried to do their father’s bidding, Beauty threw on his thin coat and ventured into the howling winds. There was an unfamiliar horse standing in the drifts with the bow-backed pony they’d named Jessica. He led them into the barn, unburdening the pony of her heavy saddle bags.

Back inside, the family reunited around the fireplace as John devoured his meal. Faith and Hope sat at his feet while Beauty sat on the couch, idly stroking the saddlebags.

Finally, John began his story.

He and Bobby had made it to the city safely, and John had quickly concluded his business with Gordon. He had paid Bobby and bought a reasonable horse, suited to farm labour and priced so that they could afford a cow  _and_  some hens. He found some sensible cloth, and some good candles and crockery.

“Crockery?” Hope breathed, excitement shining on her face.

“Aye, crockery,” John replied, weary to the bone, and continued.

He had been held up looking for the rose seeds. Apparently, it was the wrong time of year for roses themselves, and therefore no one carried the seeds. He had searched high and low, until he found a man of the cloth known only as Pastor Jim on a street corner who had some to spare.

Finally, he was able to leave the city that no longer felt remotely like home. He longed for his family, and so gathered his things and left. That was more than ten days ago.

“But where have you been since?” Faith asked. Hope shushed her, and John sighed.

“My dear, dear children,” he sighed again, and stroked a broad palm over Faith’s shining hair. “Since then, I have lost myself. I have lost  _you_.”

Quietly, he began to cry.

Concerned, Hope and Faith hugged his knees, and urged him to finish his story. From the couch, Beauty watched and said nothing. The saddlebags were impossibly heavy across his legs.

Eventually, John stopped his tears enough to continue his tale. 

The ride had been uneventful, until he was almost home. He had estimated another day or two of riding, and so when a storm blew in – black clouds heaving upon the horizon, full of yellow lightening – John had decided to push on, eager for the sight of his children, of home.

The snow blew in much faster than John had expected, and Jessica had become hopelessly confused in the snow. The new, larger horse stumbled more than once, and still John rode on, desperate to find some form of shelter.

He became lost in the swirling snow and unfamiliar woods he found himself in. How long he wandered he could not say, knew only that by the time he saw the dim lights through the storm he was more than half frozen.

John had slid off of Jess and led the two animals towards the lights, certain that no one would turn him away on a night like this. He found himself standing at a shining silver gate, two massive torches burning on either side, rose bushes in full bloom standing silent and serene in the snow. Before he could lay his hands upon the gate, it swung silently open.   On the other side there was no wind, and only a bare dusting of snow. Too tired and cold to be concerned by this oddity, he had stepped inside, and the gates closed behind him.

John had deposited the horses in the well-lit stable, empty and clean except for two waiting stalls full of straw and feed bags.  John left them munching happily, and turned, bone-tired, towards the castle that loomed in the distance.

The estate was massive, stretching as far as John could see, though he did not linger to look. Instead, he trudged towards the heavy main door, the air heavy and still around him.

The doors, like the gate, slid open before him. “Hello?” John called on the threshold, not wanting to intrude, though he wanted nothing more than to sleep for several days. Silence blanketed the room, so that even his breathing seemed muffled and distant. 

A light shone out suddenly from the hallway to his right, and John turned to it, eager to meet his host. But the light was getting further away, dimming as it receded, and John called out as he followed.

The light bobbed steadily ahead of him until it disappeared just as swiftly as it had appeared.

The hall was plunged into darkness, and there was a harsh, panting breath that blew thick across his neck.

“H-hello?” John had stammered – scared, as he told his breathless children, nearly out of his mind.

“Sleep,” came the hissed response, and a door opened directly in front of him and spilled light into the hall. The room was dominated by a gigantic bed, and John, unable to resist, found himself walking towards it, as if already in a dream. It occurred to him then that perhaps he was in actuality lying in the forest somewhere, freezing to death, and this castle was just a dream from the cold. And yet, as an unseen force pulled his clothes from him and gently tipped him into the soft, soft bed, John found himself unable to care.

He slept for who knows how long, until he woke on a morning that shone grey and clear through the windows in his room. There was a steaming cup of tea on his bedside table, and a still-warm breakfast on the little desk. He ate, hungry beyond measure, until at last he was full. He wrestled on his clean, dry clothes and headed back into the hall, determined to give thanks to his host. 

And yet, try as he might, he could not find his way anywhere else but to the front doors, no matter how many times he retraced his steps and attempted a different route. Finally, he stood by the mighty portal and called into the silence, “Thank you for your generosity, my friend. I owe you much.”

He had gone to the stables and collected his horses, and rode once more to the gate. There, beside the path, was a rosebush, in perfect bloom despite the winter’s chill. Its roses were budding bloody into the air, the deep red seeming to pulse in the frozen air. They called to him, a throbbing warm that yearned for his touch. And so John had leaned down and plucked one, thinking only of Beauty’s smile.

A mighty roar rent the air, and the animals reared and plunged, eyes rolling white.

“How dare you touch my roses!” came the horrifying snarl, filling up all of the space in and around John’s head. It clarified, coming from behind and to his left, as it spoke again. 

“How dare you, you filthy creature!” it bellowed. “I allow you in my house, take care of your animals, feed you,  _care for you_ , and  _this_  is how you repay me!”

John sat limply on his trembling horse, paralyzed, unable to face his furious host. “I’m sorry, sir,” he started, and was interrupted by a hideous howl.

“I am  _not_  your sir,” it hissed, and John felt five brilliant points of pain on his leg. Looking down, he saw a brown-furred paw as big as his head, with ebony-tipped claws that pierced his trousers.

Back in the living room, the children stared as John absently fingered the left leg of his trouser. Hope let out a breathy gasp as she noticed five bloody points that spanned the entire length of his thigh. She and Faith exchanged horrified looks.

Gasping quietly, John continued. 

“My most sincere apologies,” he had told the owner of this monstrous hand, not daring to turn to face it. “You have been beyond kind, and I did not realise such a little thing as a rose would be missed.”

“You were wrong,” the creature growled in his ear, breath hot and moist as a jungle.

“I realise that now,” John said. Without thought, he added, “It was for Beauty. A rose for Beauty. That’s all.”

There was silence from the beast. Jessica foamed and shivered under John’s hand.

“Beauty,” said the deep, rasping voice, musing in John’s ear. After a pause, it said, “I could kill you, you know, or keep you here for my entertainment. But instead, I will give you one week. At the end of that week, you will send Beauty here, and your life will be spared in exchange for another. If, in one week, your Beauty is not here, I will come to your house and eat your family, your friends, your livestock, your village. Only come into the woods, and you shall find me.”

And with that, the gate swung open, and the horses lunged forward, and John was carried away from the castle with harsh laughter grating in his ears.

In the warm living room, fire crackling merrily in the hearth, John slumped down into his chair, his tale told. He could not look at any of his children, afraid of what he might see.

“It wants Beauty?” Hope asked finally, voice small in the silence of the room.

“Yes my love, it wants Beauty.” John turned from the fire to look at his son, who sat quiet and still in the flickering light. He swallowed and continued. “But it shall not have him. I will go back. I only wanted one week with my children, one last week before I leave.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Beauty told him, face in shadow. “If you go, the Beast may yet come and kill my sisters, and take me anyway, in payment for your– for  _my_  rose. I shall go, as required. When it realises I’m…” he trailed off, then cleared his throat and started again. “That is to say, when it realises that I am not as beautiful nor as feminine as my name implies, it shall most likely send me back with a stern lecture on the foolishness of asking one’s father for a rose in December.”

“Or,” added Faith lowly, “it will eat you.”

:::

The next day, just five days before he had to leave, Beauty pointedly ignored his father’s talk of going in his stead and his sisters’ tears. Instead, he planted rose seeds in December, chipping away at the frozen ground, utterly determined to leave something truly beautiful in his stead.

:::

Three days before he had to leave, Beauty opened the saddlebags. They were filled with luxurious dresses for his sisters, ropes of pearls, diamond chokers. There were pouches of crop seeds, and thick wax candles, scented soaps and dainty perfumes. There were rich costumes for his father, trimmed in gold. There was more, far too much to have fit in Jessica’s saddlebags, and each new item yielded a barely suppressed gasp from the person it was so obviously meant for. 

The last item from the bag, found by Faith, was a thick silver ring, a ‘B’ inscribed on the inside. As he slid it on the ring finger of his right hand, Beauty wondered if it was meant as a gesture of goodwill, or as a bribe.

:::

With two days left to go, the Winchesters ate at Ellen’s pub, and it was announced that Beauty would be leaving them.

“Where are you off to?” Jo asked, taking in John’s tears and Beauty’s steadfast expression.

“I’m going to try my hand at sailing,” Beauty lied, while Hope stifled a sob on Andy’s shoulder.

“Well,” Jo said, “be sure to send me letters from foreign climes.”

“I don’t see why you can’t stay and help your father,” Ellen said, angrily wiping down the already-clean bar. “Why this need to go gallivanting off? You’re leaving your family behind.”

Beauty gave her a tight smile and thought about leaving this place. He felt sure the beast had books in the castle, and his smile eased into something more natural. “I shall miss you all, of course,” he told her, “but I think this is a good way to become a man.”

Ash grinned and tossed his long hair back from his shoulders. “You just be careful, young Winchester, about how you go about being made a man.” He and Andy exchanged a sharp-edged glance. “Long months at sea… Aye, you watch yourself.”

Beauty smiled and wondered what on earth that was supposed to mean, and poured himself some more ale.

:::

The week passed quickly, much faster than Beauty thought possible. On the sixth night, he packed what little clothes he had, unsure of what the creature expected from him. Would he be food, or entertainment, or company? This of course did not make a lick of difference on his clothing, as he had only his tattered work clothes to bring. 

He turned the ring on his finger, and thought of a heavy-voiced stranger, with claws for fingers and a thick brown pelt. He shivered, and went to bed.

He did not dream.

:::

The next morning, John saddled Jessica and the girls stood outside to see Beauty off. Hope and Faith were crying, clutching each other for support. John’s eyes were red, and his hair seemed greyer than ever. Beauty mounted the pony and scowled.

“This is ridiculous,” Beauty said crossly, looking down at his feet, which dangled almost to the ground. “Can’t I just walk?”

“No you can _not_ ,” Faith told him crossly, through her tears. “Jessica will take you to this awful beast, so that we may have some comfort that you are not alone.”

Hope nodded, and both sisters stepped forward to cover his face in kisses. John stepped forward and gave his son a one-armed hug. “Be careful, my boy, and know that I love you, and if you were not so stubborn I would go in your stead.”

“You could try,” Beauty told him, tired of his lines, “but I would knock you down, old man.”

There were thin smiles all around, and Beauty nudged poor Jessica to face the forest, looming black at the edge of the white field. “So long,” he said, over his shoulder, and kneed her into a canter.

At the edge of the forest, he reined her in and looked back. One of the small figures of his sisters had slumped to the ground, waving feebly, while the other leaned on her father, who held her close.

And Beauty went in to the forest.


	2. Chapter 2

Beauty rode for a long time, unsure of where he was going. There was no clear path, and eventually he allowed Jess to lead, picking her way carefully among the tangled undergrowth of a forest untouched by man.

He found himself nodding off, jerking awake each time his chin hit his chest. Abruptly, he was yanked back to consciousness, unaware that he’d drifted off again, to find that Jess had stopped in front of a set of gates. She was shivering, her shoulders wet with sweat. Beauty dismounted, his legs stiff from the long ride in an awkward position. Taking the reins, he led her to the gates which, as his father had described, opened before he had quite reached them.

Jess was wheezing now, eyes rolling, and Beauty took pity on her. He led her away from the gates and removed the saddlebags, tucked the reins up under her bridle, and sent her off with a slap to the rump. She took off, round body jouncing through the black trunks. She would, he knew, find her way home. He hoped his family wouldn’t see the empty saddle and assume he’d been eaten. There was more meat on Jess anyway, he thought wryly.

Beauty watched her until she was out of sight, unaccountably sad to see her go, and then turned back to the gate, which hung open like an empty pledge. He sighed, hefted his bags, and trudged through. The gates swung shut with a bang that echoed through the air. It was completely silent within the fence, all birdsong and leaf rustle voided. Taking a deep breath, Beauty headed deeper into the estate.

The castle was surrounded by shrubs that were a lush, dark green despite the freezing weather. There was a scant inch of snow on the ground that seemed to have been placed there carefully, and the grey path that Beauty was following was completely clear. The castle itself towered above him, pale stone casting an ashen aura.

A long, low building to his right was what Beauty assumed was the stable, larger than his own house in the deepening gloom of evening.

By the time he made it to the main doors, twice at least as tall as he was, the sky had darkened to the knifepoint edge of night. Beauty stood a moment, resting the saddlebags on the ground as he took in the scenes that ranged across the doors themselves.

The left panel contained scenes of a hunting party, led by a man with a cruel face who was whipping his horse into a fury. He had a crossbow resting easily across his lap, and despite his pitiless expression, Beauty could see the attractiveness of his features.

The middle of the entrance was a large tree, obviously meant to symbolize a great forest. It spread across the crack between the doors, its heavy limbs extending over the entire scene, its roots creating a uniform base for both scenes.

The right panel showed a lone horse fleeing the tree, saddle askew, reins loose and eyes rolling. It was surrounded by deer, birds, wolves, squirrels, all stretched out into panicked runs. The horse had five long gashes on its flank, and Beauty was forcibly reminded of the wounds on his father’s leg. He wondered what had happened to the hunting party.

Swallowing loudly, Beauty stretched a hand forward to knock, and the door swung open before he made contact. The hall within was brightly lit, warm firelight licking over the walls and reaching across the marble floors to lap at his feet. Not quite what he was expecting, he admitted to himself, and grabbed his bags as he went inside.

He followed the hall to the dining room, where a feast, large enough to feed a dozen starving men, was laid out. Beauty meant to bypass it, to greet his host, but that was before the first smell of it hit his nose. He hadn’t realised how deprived he’d been of variety, but that first sniff was almost enough to bring him to his knees. Beauty discovered he was starving, and gratefully sank into one of the two chairs, mouth watering profusely.

He waited momentarily, peering into the shadows, wondering if the beast would perhaps choose to dine with him. The room, however, was still and laden with a thick feeling of, well. It was hard to say. Expectation, perhaps.

A high-pitched gurgle cut Beauty off from his good intentions, and he smiled down at his own belly before beginning the process of choosing from the literally dozens of plates of food laid out for him. Mountains of mashed potatoes were surrounded by forests of vegetable greens; there were heaps of salads and gravy lakes, all coyly surrounded by dishes of meats.  _And please_ , Beauty thought appreciatively,  _let us not forget the meats_ . There were steaks and rumps frolicking in amongst the pheasants and capons, with an entire plate of chops off slightly by itself, though none the less tempting for it. Beauty chewed and sighed and went back for seconds and thirds, everything done to perfection. 

At some point, the meal gave way to dessert. Pies and ice cream and chocolate delicacies appeared, pushing the wreckage of the main course out of their way impatiently. Despite his own hunger and size Beauty could not eat all that he wished he could. The atmosphere within the room became lighter as he ate, which he took as either the lessening of his own fears or as the tacit approval of his host.

Throughout it all, the chair at the head of the table remained empty.

:::

Finally, thankfully, Beauty was full. His belly was stretched drum-taut over the waistband of his pants, his napkin a ruined mess on the remains of his plate. He tipped his head back on the chair and sighed, a smile dancing along the corners of his sticky mouth.

“Thank you,” he said to the room, eyes closed.

“You’re welcome,” it rumbled back, and Beauty nearly fell out of his chair. He opened his eyes and looked towards the other chair, unsure what would greet him. If it would greet him at all. 

In it sat what could only be his host. The lighting of the room had shifted, gone gloomy, casting its master into a fuller shadow than was completely natural, and for that Beauty was grateful. The beast sat, hugely magnificent, shaggy head bowed. It was hard to make out, but it was massive, that much was clear. The great furred head that looked down at him, taller than Beauty even when seated, had ears like a wolf, pointed and swivelling. One ear – the right – remained aimed at him the entire time that they regarded each other.

A paw was on the table, lit by firelight, one wicked claw tapping gently. There was a puff of lace at its wrist, laid out daintily over short, thick fur, and Beauty’s eyes traveled along the length of an arm, thick and enormously powerful in a dark-red velvet sleeve. The shoulders were implausibly broad, rounded in a slouch under the soft material of its jacket. 

But the head of the beast, what Beauty kept returning to, was what was truly awing. The fur there was longer and thicker than on the paw, ranging shaggy down the solid neck. It had, Beauty realised, a muzzle; four canine teeth shined wetly white where they pushed out over its lips. Beauty jerked his eyes up to meet the beast’s; they were only a gleam in the shadows, though he would swear that they looked amused.

The overall impression of the beast, Beauty concluded, was one of a horribly restrained power, brooding in the darkly sinister clothes of a gentleman.

The beast shifted slightly under the scrutiny, then cleared its throat. “You’re not…  _exactly_  what I was expecting.”

“Um,” said Beauty, blushing violently. In the painful, squirming silence that followed, Beauty imagined the many ways that he could be punished for his sex. None of them, to put it mildly, were pleasant.

The beast sighed and turned its head. Beauty caught the outline of its whiskered muzzle, the teeth, before it turned back. “Did you like the food?” the beast asked, and Beauty felt the low thunder of it in his chest.

“I-” It came out weak and thready, so he stopped, cleared his throat, started again. “It was good.” 

The beast dipped its great head. “Yes. The uh, the pies are pretty good.” It perked up slightly. “Did you try the steak? Because the steak here is  _awesome_ .”

“It was a little rare for me,” Beauty told him – oh yes, definitely a  _him_  – feeling surreal.

“That’s the best part,” the Beast rumbled enthusiastically. “Still tastes like cow. And the pies, seriously, delicious.”

There was an awkward silence as both of them regarded the wreckage of the remaining pies.

“So,” said the Beast, shifting silently, “you’re not a girl.” It wasn’t really a question, but Beauty felt he ought to make it clear.

“No,” he replied carefully. Perhaps this would be the moment he would be devoured, like a second-rate steak.  _Still tasted like human_ , his mind gibbered.

“I was expecting a girl.” Beauty couldn’t take his eyes off the tapping claw, rhythmic in the flickering light. While he watched it, the Beast heaved a sigh that gusted hot over Beauty’s face, blowing his hair back from his forehead, and stood. “Well, come on then,” the Beast said, beckoning.

Beauty stood, uncertain, and blurted, “Are you going to eat me?”

The silence was ringing this time, as the Beast stared at him. Beauty almost wished he could see him, could discern the expression on his face, though he was still decidedly glad for the shadows.

Finally, the Beast stepped forward, one stride placing him directly at Beauty’s side. Beauty could smell him, all earth and musk and  _wild_ , and willed himself not to shake. Lowly, almost purring in his ear, the Beast rumbled, “I’ll show you to your room.”

The Beast stood a full head taller than him, despite Beauty’s own height, and the comparison made him feel like a child again. He stooped to grab the saddlebags and felt, rather than heard, his host move away. Low as he was, he could see the Beast’s feet, more like dog’s paws than anything human, with four dark claws curving to touch the stone floor.

Beauty straightened up in time to catch the Beast licking the fingers, shorter and thicker than a man’s, on his left hand. The Beast glanced over, saw him watching, and hastily snatched the hand into his cloak.

“I was just having a bit of pie,” the Beast told him, looking remarkably embarrassed.

“Um,” said Beauty, and swallowed loudly.

“Well, to the room, I suppose,” said the Beast after a moment and set off down one of the halls. 

Beauty found himself having to lengthen his strides to keep up with the Beast’s lope. His shoes and breathing were the only sounds, for the Beast moved as silently as a shade. He had a tail, Beauty noticed, and had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep his laughter, which would probably be on the wrong side of hysterical, in. The fur there was long and shaggy, brushing the ground and preventing his dark cloak from keeping a flowing line. Beauty tried to focus on the wondrous sights of the hall, art and frescos and tapestries, but his eyes simply would not leave the tail alone.

“So,” the Beast said, turning down yet another hallway. “Have you always been a dude?”

“A… dude?” Beauty asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“You know, a dude,” the Beast threw a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder. At Beauty’s blank look, he stopped and turned around, cloak swirling impressively. Beauty took a step back and shrugged. He waited, whether for an explanation or a blow, he wasn’t sure. The Beast took him in and let out a sigh. “A dude. A guy. Un hombre. Un homme. A man.”

“Oh,” Beauty nodded, “a guy is a man is a dude. I understand. And yes, I have always been a man.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Although I suppose if I am to be completely accurate I would have to admit that at one point I was a baby, and then a child, a period that was followed by one of being a boy. Always male, though.” He swallowed nervously, biting back on the rest of his tangent.

The Beast frowned at him, bottom teeth looking particularly sharp in the dim light. He huffed out another sigh that sounded something like  _what a geek_  and turned to continue down the hall.

Finally, the Beast stopped in front of a door. The torches on either side of it flared to life, and the Beast set his candelabra down on a handy end table. The door itself was indistinguishable from the others that they had passed but for the small ornate  _B_  that had been carved into the doorknob.

The door swung open eagerly as the Beast angled himself in, a little too wide for the frame. Beauty followed him in, taking in the simple, if slightly feminine, décor. There were lush carpets laid strategically over the stone floor, vines tangled in a green riot over a cream background. There was a dark writing desk with a small pile of milky papers and dainty pens, not entirely suited for a man’s heavy stroke, matched with a chair just a shade too small to be fully comfortable. The walls were hung with tapestries of unicorns and birds, framing large windows. The bed itself was a massive four-poster with gauzy hangings, plump pillows, and inviting turned-down covers. 

Beauty fought back a yawn as the Beast muttered something to the fireplace, which promptly burst into flame. Beauty wondered at the fact that this, a talking beast invoking fire-spells in a sentient castle, did not faze him in the least.

“This will be your room,” the Beast told him, turning from the hearth. “If you find anything not to your liking, do not hesitate to inform the room. I’m sure it will be only too happy to rearrange itself.”

“Oh,” said Beauty, on the knife edge of hysteria. “Of course.” He hoped he would not giggle.

The Beast regarded him for a moment, again. For the hundredth time, it seemed, Beauty was on display, and for the hundredth time he blushed under the scrutiny. This time, though, Beauty was able to look back. He took in the almost-knobs of horn half-hidden under shaggy fur, the hang of the Beast’s cloak, the fit of his trousers. But it was the dark eyes, green now in the brighter light, that were by far the most human aspect of his face. They transformed him from a beast into the Beast, from an animal into an almost-man.

“Will I ever be allowed to leave?” Beauty blurted, surprising himself not only with the question but with the hope in his voice.

Mournfully, the Beast shook his head. “I’m afraid your leaving me would end in death, Beauty. You must never leave.”

“Never?” Beauty asked, hating the way his voice wavered.

“Never,” the Beast affirmed, meeting his eyes.

Beauty turned to the bed, pressed a splayed hand to his chest. “Please leave,” he managed, Hope and Faith smiling and waving in his mind. 

When he looked back, the room was empty, the fire burning lacklustre in its grate. The door clicked forlornly shut as Beauty flung himself on the bed and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, until sleep took him down.

:::

Beauty woke up at the first grey light of dawn, a habit from his life in the country. His eyes were scratchy, hot, blurred. The smell of toast and tea filled the room, and Beauty could just make out a plate of breakfast on the bedside table, tendrils of steam curling lazy in the air. He groaned and propped himself up on an elbow, stretching out for the mug.

He was just easing it off the tray when he remembered: No more Hope, no more Faith. No mornings with John, laughing or grumbling over the latest of Ash and Andy’s antics. No more dinners at the pub, all warmth and smiles and stew that stuck to one’s ribs in all the right ways. The cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, a thump-smash-splash as it hit the edge of the carpet.

Beauty dropped back into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. They smelled like nobody, like enchanted air, and nothing at all like home.

:::

When he woke next, the room was lit with the natural light of afternoon and filled with a wild, smoky tang. Beauty sat up with a start to see the bedroom door clicking shut.

Heart pounding, he slid out of bed, forgetting about the shattered cup – except that his bare feet felt only the soft cushion of the rug. Frowning, he looked down. There was no sign that anything had ever broken or spilled, though the tray at his bedside held only toast with congealing butter.

Pushing down the despair that threatened to well up again, Beauty padded to the door. There was no sign that anyone had been inside, and a quick check established that there was no one waiting in the hall. Beauty turned back to the room, feeling rather off-centre, and scrubbed a hand over his face. The ring that he’d worn since they’d opened the saddlebags – Hope gasping as yet another fine slip was produced, John smiling with bemusement – felt warm and alive on his cheek. 

With a quick inhale, not quite a gasp, Beauty took in the room for the first time that day. The bed was sturdier, heavy curtains replacing the gauzy fabric of yesterday.  The duvet was different too, a dark red. The desk had been replaced, dark heavy wood in the place of the lighter, airier furniture of the night before. The chair, too, was taller and stouter; the pens were thicker, broader; the loose leaves of paper succeeded by weighty black-bound journals.

One of which was held open by a glass paperweight.

Beauty edged forward, feeling himself almost ridiculously unnerved – though, to be fair, he  _was_  in an enchanted castle at the behest of the Beast. He peered at the paper without coming close enough to touch, read the clumsy words written there.

_ Beauty. _

_ I hope you’re feeling better this morning. If you’d let me join you for dinner, that would be awesome.  _

_ Have a good day, _

_ Your humble host. _

Beauty sighed and stepped away, turning his mind resolutely to performing his morning ablutions.

Later, clean and freshly shaven, smelling like fine soap, Beauty was confronted with the fact that his clothes were gone. Mouth set in a grim line, he filled his voice with as much authority as he could and said, “Give me back my clothes.”

His clothes, from his simple coat to his simple shirt to his simple pants, did not appear, though he did suddenly spy his boots, as simple as the rest, leaning by the door.

“That’s a good start,” he allowed, “but I want the rest of it.”

Still nothing, though the doors of the armoire did creak open just the slightest bit, as if on the receiving end of a slight puff of air from within.

Beauty rolled his eyes and marched over to it, unconsciously giving the desk wide berth. He flung the doors open and was immediately appalled at what he saw.

The wardrobe was a mess of colour, hues bright enough to scald one’s eyes. Laughing incredulously, Beauty pulled a blue shirt (though really, ‘blue’ came nowhere near to describing the colour) from the racks. It was a riot of frills and ruffles, lacy bits and toggles. He supposed it might look quite dashing on a romantic pirate or foppish lover, but neither choice was the look that he was suited to.

It took some digging, not to mention some creative curses and dodging more than a few moth balls, but eventually Beauty found some clothes that were proper. Simple trousers, though buff rather than a plain black and a pale green shirt that would not make him look a fool. He grinned, feeling triumphant as he shrugged into it, and slipped his boots on.

Trying not to think at all, Beauty left his room.

:::

Beauty spent the rest of the day wandering around the castle. He got lost after about three minutes, but he figured that the Beast would come and find him before he starved to death in a dusty hall.

Except the halls weren’t really dusty; everything was perfection, enough so that it set Beauty on edge. He’d tilted a painting, an old dark oil portrait, nearly on its side as an experiment. He’d made it down the hall and looked back, saw one crooked frame in a long line of neat level edges, and had to turn back to set it right.

His boots echoing off the stone floors were the only sound. He’d gotten hungry at some point, and the next room he’d peered into had contained only an end table at its very centre. On it was a large silver tray bearing sandwiches, water, pastries. Beauty had eaten it, thanked the room, and left when the Beast failed to appear and rumble a ‘you’re welcome’ in his ear.

Throughout the day, he repeatedly found himself wandering through the same hallway. It was empty, utterly devoid of any decorations, save a lone painting.

It was a portrait of a young man, about Beauty’s age. He was undeniably handsome, with the sort of good looks that Beauty had longed for in the place of his own blandness. His eyes were a vibrant green, his lips plush and red, his brown hair a spikey riot. He looked undeniably cruel; closed off and cold. Something about the set of his jaw, perhaps, or the slight squint of his eyes. 

Whatever it was, Beauty felt a chill whenever he walked past. When he’d gotten close to study it, he’d felt as if the young man was scrutinizing him just as carefully, judging him, and finding him wanting.

Despite the lack of dust, the castle had an air of disuse. While there were a few rooms that Beauty felt his host spent some time in (mostly due to the shadows that lay in clumps and piles, despite the sunlight that filtered weakly in through the windows) there were many rooms where fires burst immediately into flame at his arrival, and the doors opened if he so much as looked in their direction, as if they were eager for company.

There were no mirrors.

Overall, Beauty found nothing of any note. The day wore on until somewhere in the distance, just as he was inspecting yet another room of Medieval tapestries, a clock struck six. He left the room with a sigh, ready to face his host, his captor, for dinner.

The hallway looked exactly the same as all of the others he’d been wandering all day, but after only two right turns he found himself once again in the massive dining room of the night before. The long table was again heaped with food, candelabras casting soft lighting over the scene. There were the two chairs from the night before, but as Beauty got closer he realised that once again there was only one place setting.

Not wanting to get his hopes up for dinner alone, Beauty took his seat and spread his napkin on his lap. He looked up suddenly, hoping to catch the Beast sliding into his chair, but the room was still empty.

By the time Beauty was attacking his dessert – the long afternoon of exploring was apparently enough to have more than emptied his belly – the Beast still had not shown. Beauty shovelled some cake into his mouth and tried not to think of the sad, awkward conversation of last night. He gave a reluctant half-smile at the thought of such a fearsome creature attempting to put him at ease with talks of pie.

“Something funny?” came the deep, rough voice from over by the massive fireplace.

Beauty turned in his seat to send an unamused look over his shoulder. “ _Must_  you skulk around like that?”

The Beast detached himself from the shadows and paced over, cloak lapping artistically about his massive frame. His jacket was a dark blue tonight, Beauty noticed absently as he sat.

“I don’t mean to skulk,” the Beast told him, lips twitching around his pointed teeth. “I guess it’s just a habit. Normally there’s no one else here, and I don’t really like hearing myself stomp around. But I can make the effort to breathe extra hard when I’m around you, or something.”

Beauty hummed noncommittally and idly licked some chocolate icing off of his fingers, missing entirely the odd intensity of the Beast’s gaze. “The cake is even better tonight,” he said.

The Beast cleared his throat abruptly. “How was your day?”

“It was… interesting,” Beauty said. “I saw many portraits and tapestries.”

“Jeez,” said the Beast, eyeing the platter of untouched pâté, “you were in the wrong parts of the castle.”

Beauty startled himself by grinning, felt it stretch wider as it was matched with a much toothier one from the Beast. Determined to at least  _attempt_  to forge a friendship with his host if he was to remain for the rest of his life, he leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think perhaps that the castle was trying to keep me pinned in. I could almost swear that I saw the same hallway several times.”

“Oh?” The Beast raised a shaggy eyebrow.

Beauty nodded. “Yes. This hall had only one portrait in it.”

The Beast leaned forward exaggeratedly. “Do go on.”

“It was a young man, a brunette. He had rather piercing green eyes, and a very cruel mouth.”

The Beast sat back abruptly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to that section of the castle.” He stroked a claw though the tuft of long fur on his chin and murmured, “I was sure he’d been destroyed?”

“Who?” Beauty asked, curiosity piqued.

“Ah, no one,” the Beast said, straightening up. He speared a small sausage and flicked it in his mouth, smacking his lips happily as he swallowed. “I’ll have to give you a  _real_  tour of this place. Enough of the damn family photos, huh? That is,” he amended hastily, “if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” Beauty replied, taken a little off guard. There was a moment of silence, the Beast’s eyes staring hard at Beauty. “Something on my face?” he asked, a weak attempt at humour.

“Um, nope,” the Beast muttered, looking shifty. “It’s just, you know. You look good in green.”

“Thank you,” Beauty said, voice angling up until it turned into a question. He looked down at his shirt.

“I guess it’s the firelight,” the Beast rumbled. “You look really good. And stuff.”

“Oh.” Beauty wondered what it was about the dim lighting that made him look so edible, and decided he’d try to stick to direct sunlight. That way the Beast wouldn’t have to fight his urges to swallow him whole.

The silence lengthened, became awkward.

“Well, goodnight then, Beauty,” the Beast said, pushing back from the table abruptly. He paused slightly, in the act of sliding his chair back in, to send an unreadable look Beauty’s way. “Was Beauty the name you were born with?” he asked finally.

Beauty gave a rueful half-smile and shook his head slightly, standing as well. “No. My sisters are named Hope and Faith, and they thought their poor younger brother ought to have a similar name. And so they decided on Beauty, and unfortunately the rather contradictory nickname has remained. It’s entirely ill-suited, I know.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” the Beast told him quietly, and wiggled his pointed ears. Startled again, Beauty burst out laughing.

“I was born Samuel,” Beauty said finally.

“Sam,” said the Beast. “Sammy.”

He left the room before Beauty could say another word.

:::

The next morning, after breakfast and a minor battle with his closet, Beauty opened the door to the hall and found the Beast leaning his massive bulk casually against a wall. He straightened once the door opened, and offered what Beauty was fairly certain was supposed to be a smile. Mostly, it looked like a mouthful of knives.

It was horribly unnerving to see his grinning host in the daylight. Though the shadows were trying valiantly to deepen themselves, the mid-morning sun banished them lazily. The Beast was almost a shadow himself, dark in the cheery morning light. He was wearing dark blue pants that went to his knee, stretched tight across the mass of his thighs. A simple white shirt, loose at the throat and wide along the arms, sat civilized in stark contrast to the furred wilderness underneath it. The Beast had a  _pelt_ , a fact Beauty was having immense difficulty getting over. It was heavy and brown and Beauty jerked his eyes up to the Beast’s, determined not to stare.

The Beast cocked an eyebrow and bowed ironically. “Ready for our tour?” he asked, voice rolling like far-off thunder in the hall. Beauty nodded, and the Beast immediately perked up and offered his arm. There was an awkward moment as Beauty hesitated, the Beast deflating as time passed but stubbornly keeping his arm out. Beauty cleared his throat and cautiously tucked his hand in the crook of the Beast’s elbow, warm and intimate under the thin shirt.

The Beast beamed again and started off, towing Beauty in his wake. Beauty stumbled slightly and then managed to keep pace, tugging the Beast back a bit when his longer strides forced Beauty to pick up his pace.

:::

The Beast, it turned out, was a half-decent tour guide. He stuck to what he obviously thought were the best parts of the castle, which in turn gave Beauty some good insight into the character of his host.

The first place they went was a shooting range, located on the far western side of the castle’s grounds. The Beast was apparently quite entranced by weapons, and when asked about certain arms became rather animated.

“This crossbow,” he rumbled, pointing a wickedly long claw, “saved my life probably a gazillion times. It’s freaking awesome. Oh, and this one over here, you ever seen anything like it?” At Beauty’s confused expression, the Beast grinned around his massive teeth. “No wonder. I  _made_  it. Myself. Oh man, this takes me back.” He picked it up and did something strange to it, pulling a sliding piece back and forth so that it produced a rather intimidating  _snicksnock_  sound. 

His hands were a bit clumsy, Beauty noted, claws getting in the way enough to make the Beast frown.   “Haven’t been out here in a while,” the Beast said, putting the metal thing down. “My, uh,” he paused, looking at his furry hands. He tucked them back into his cloak and continued, “I’m a bit older than I used to be, and I can’t quite…  _Grip_  the way I used to. But you’re welcome to come on out and shoot the shit out of stuff whenever you want.”

“Um,” Beauty said, not quite sure what to say. The way the Beast spoke, the words he used; Beauty was almost completely lost.

“Anyway, off we go,” the Beast said cheerfully, and swept out. “I’ll take you back to the castle through the gardens,” he tossed over his shoulder. When Beauty pulled level, he continued, “They’re pretty awesome at this time of year.”

“It’s winter,” Beauty panted.

“That’s right, dude, good job.” The Beast slowed down, marginally. “But, I mean, obviously it’s a lot milder here than where you came from, and I take real good care of the flowers.”

And it was true; they rounded the corner of the hedge boundary that led from the range and Beauty was hit by the sight of acres of roses, all in perfect bloom, stretching out away from his feet. He stared, trying to take it all in.

The entire garden was hedged in, but inside the dark green borders roses ran rampant and wild, thin white paths winding through them. Reds, whites, creams, pinks, all frozen in silent splendour. Riots of colours he’d never seen in roses, all on a backdrop of perfect white snow. But not entirely perfect;  there were huge, dog-like footprints along the winding paths, deep, busy impressions in the snow, showing the obvious work that went into tending them.

Beauty turned to the Beast, saw him watching him. At Beauty’s arched eyebrow, the Beast turned quickly back to the roses. His breath curled white from his muzzle, and Beauty marvelled at this massive creature’s care for such delicate flowers.

“Are we going in?” Beauty asked quietly.

“Yep,” the Beast said. “Here we go.” He didn’t move. “Going in.” He frowned. “Any minute now.”

 Beauty watched him fight himself, and made a decision. Gripping the Beast’s arm at the elbow, he tugged him forward and into the gardens, snow crunching under his feet. The Beast’s eyes locked on his and stayed that way until they were a good ways into the garden, where he loosened up and started pointing out certain types of roses. 

 Beauty listened, taking it all in, and when he cautiously took his hand off the Beast’s arm, the Beast’s voice faltered only slightly.


	3. Chapter 3

Inside the castle, the Beast was back in high spirits.

“This stuffy old hall is full of stuffy old portraits of stuffy old people,” he proclaimed, waving his hand majestically. 

They were in one of the halls of paintings Beauty had seen the day before, though not the one with the lone young man. Row after row of stern faces looked scornfully down at them, and Beauty couldn’t help a small smile at the Beast’s casual dismissal.

“Who are they?” Beauty asked.

“Oh, they used to live here,” the Beast rumbled, coming to a halt in front of one of them.

“This man looks like the youth I kept seeing yesterday. They look remarkably alike, actually. Though this, um, this  _guy_  looks quite a bit older,” Beauty told him, peering at the painting. There was no inscription, no title, no artist’s name.

“Uh, you probably saw his son,” the Beast murmured thoughtfully. “He wasn’t a big part of the family. Shunned, I guess you could say.”

“Why?”

“Oh, well. You know. This guy wanted his son to marry some chick, but the son was like, No way, suck my, uh,” the Beast looked sideways at Beauty. “He said, No thank you. And then the dad was all, Listen, you’d better do it you little prick, and the son was like, Oh yeah? And the dad was like, Yeah. And the son was like, And what if I say no? And Dad was like, You’re a little piece of shit, a worthless, fucking unnatural piece of shit.”

The Beast, who’d been quite animated up until this point, slumped suddenly.

“And then what happened?” Beauty asked, curious.

When the Beast finally continued, it was in a dull monotone: a history lesson. “The son refused. And so the father locked him away, in a greenhouse of all places, for years and years. He was without human contact, without family, without friends. 

“Until one day, the father died, and the mother let her son out of his prison, but it was too late. The intervening years had changed the spoiled boy, turned him into a horrible beast of a man. He was cruel, and unforgiving, and driven by rage and thoughts of revenge, and his mother soon died from the shame. His three sisters wept, and all three succumbed to their grief. 

“The horrible young man didn’t care, driven only by his bitterness and rage. He ruled his servants and his people with an iron fist, and fucked his way, cruelly and brutally, through half the population.”

There was a deep silence as the Beast thought. He began to pace, face twisted in disgust, as Beauty leaned on the wall beside the father’s portrait and watched. “This next part is mostly speculation on my part, so you’ll have to excuse me.   The young man’s people gathered together and decided they would rather live free from his tyranny, and so they scraped together enough money – not an easy task, as the taxes were ridiculously high – to buy the help of a witch. The witch met the young man as he rode on a hunting trip through the woods, and offered him a deal.

“The young man could either repent, and let his people live happy, prosperous lives, or else he would suffer the consequences. The stupid ass turned her down, and was never heard from again.”

“I suppose there’s a lesson to be learned from that,” Beauty said eventually.

The Beast burst out laughing at that, a great roaring growl that chuffed with his breath. Beauty smiled awkwardly and the Beast bent double, wiping at his eyes. “Oh man,” he said finally, straightening. “You could say that. Definitely. Now c’mon, I wanna show you something other than this damn hall of crusty old men.”

Beauty smiled and followed, nodding and looking thoughtful as the Beast pointed out interesting suits of armour or whatever, but his mind was busy with the Beast’s story.

:::

“See this banister?” the Beast asked later, pointing at a giant, three-storey-high, spiral staircase. It was the largest Beauty had ever seen, easily wide enough to fit a dozen people side-by-side, and it was hard to miss.

“Okay, so, when I was hu-” the Beast cut himself off, and continued, “when I was a lot younger, I’d slide down that thing twenty times a day. Good exercise, y’know, running up all those stairs.”

“I used to slide down the banister at my old house,” Beauty told him, wondering what it was that the Beast had been going to say. “Until I got too big, anyway.”

“I bet you’re not too big for this one,” the Beast said, eagerly. “We’ll totally fling ourselves down it, but some other time, okay? Cuz the cabinets always get pissed at me when I do things I shouldn’t, especially when I’m wearing white.” He somehow managed to look remarkably sheepish, ears flattened to his head.

“Um,” Beauty said, for the ‘gazillionth’ time that day. He wasn’t used to being constantly stuck silent, and resolved to get used to this strange way of talking as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t do to be constantly shown up in conversations with beasts that looked like they shouldn’t be talking in the first place. “I don’t suppose you’ve a library?”

“A library?” the Beast cocked his head. “Sure we’ve got a library! You like reading?”

“Yeah,” Beauty mumbled, trying it out.

The Beast beamed at him, which put his teeth on full display. “Cool. I’ll show you.”

They set off, the Beast’s claws clicking on the floors. “I’m making an effort,” he said, pointing at them. Beauty smiled, and realized quite suddenly that for a gigantic, horrible, terrifying creature, the Beast wasn’t actually so bad. A little weird, yes, but he supposed living in a castle with only angry cabinets and silent roses for company would do that to you.

:::

The library was enough by itself to ensure that Beauty would be, if not happy in this place, at least content. 

It was gigantic, easily one hundred times the size of the library in the city, with books crammed tight on every shelf. It was two storeys high, with ornate staircases leading to the second floor. Little rolling ladders were placed throughout, making the higher shelves more accessible. The fireplace had roared into flame as soon as they’d walked in, along with a multitude of wall-set torches, so that the room was lit with an cheerful light. Large armchairs and overstuffed couches were arranged in groups in front of the fire, and Beauty decided he would be spending a lot of time in this room.

The Beast, Beauty noticed, had found a shadow and was staying there, watching him with his darkly unreadable eyes.

“It’s wonderful,” Beauty said lowly, feeling as if he ought to say something.

“I guess,” the Beast muttered. “I’m not much of a reader.”

“Why not?” Beauty asked, ready to leap to the defence of reading as a valuable pastime if his host slandered it in the least.

Instead, the Beast held up his hands and wiggled his fingers, claws clicking together. “It’s incredibly frustrating to try and turn the pages. Plus, I’m maybe kind of nearsighted, and reading hurts my eyeballs. Maybe.”

“Oh,” Beauty said, taken aback. “You know how to read, then?”

“I did leave you a note yesterday,” the Beast said, a little testily. 

Beauty blushed. “I’d forgotten.”

“Hm,” the Beast was noncommittal.

Beauty thought fast, trying for something to say as apology. “I could read to you, if you want,” he offered eventually. “Out loud.”

The Beast stared at him from the shadows, eyes narrowed. “All right,” he answered slowly. “Right now?”

“Well,” Beauty started, and was interrupted by his stomach growling angrily. The Beast’s ears flicked forward and he grinned.

“How ’bout dinner instead?” the Beast said jovially.

“That sounds lovely,” Beauty replied, and meant every word.

:::

“Good evening, Beauty,” the Beast said, giving an ironic bow, ears twitching in amusement.

“Good evening, Beast,” Beauty replied, bowing back flamboyantly.

“Why don’t you sit back, relax, let me pull up a chair,” the Beast grinned as they both sat down, “as the Dining Room proudly presents your dinner.” He swept a hand majestically to encompass the table.

Mouth watering, Beauty ate. They dined together every night from then on. Though that wasn’t really true, Beauty amended. He ate, and his host would mostly watch, a hungry glint in his eye. The Beast generally looked hungry, Beauty had noticed, whether they met in the halls or the gardens or the dining room. It seemed like he was constantly yearning for something, though what that could be Beauty had no idea.

He’d invited the Beast on more than one occasion to join him in eating, pointing out dishes that were especially delicious, trying to tempt him out of his self-imposed fasting. But the Beast almost always declined, looking flattered. “You might be able to forget what I am, Beauty,” he’d say, ignoring Beauty’s contemptuous frowns, “but watching me eat would definitely remind you.” 

Beauty was sure that the constant menu of rich food should have made him as fat as a Christmas goose, and yet his body was almost as lean as it had ever been. He’d filled out, certainly, but his own critical eye, lacking a mirror, could find no hint of a wobble or roll. He attributed it to the amount of walking he was forced to do, strolling around the castle or its grounds, trying – and for the most part, failing – to keep pace with the Beast.

Beauty split his days between the castle grounds and the library. He would wander the gardens in the morning, stretching his legs and taking in the fresh air. Those rare days that it snowed, Beauty would spend as much time as he could outside, marvelling in how much he had changed that the feel of cold snow on his face could make him so happy.

He was particularly fond of the rose gardens and had often stumbled across the Beast wandering about – prowling really, inspecting the leaves, soil, and resident bug population. It quickly became habit for the pair to meet in the morning and roam the gardens at each others’ sides.

The first time the Beast had missed their morning walks, Beauty had been distressed and lonely enough to berate him for a full hour at dinner. The Beast had burst out laughing, the sound easing the unnamed, slippery knot in Beauty’s belly, and promised solemnly over a bowl of peas that he would never again miss their mornings.

:::

“Pass me that ribbon, will you?”

“Here.”

“You look lovely, Beast.”

“I look like a Yorkie, you ass.”

“Ah now, don’t frown. You’ll pull the braids in your beard out. And then it wouldn’t match the French braiding in your mane.”

“I hate you. And don’t bat your eyelashes at me. I know the true evil that lurks behind your ridiculously beautiful exterior.”

“Excuse me?”

“I  _said_ , play with my hair some more, will you? Otherwise I’ll eat you, feet first.”

:::

For the first time since Beauty had come to live at the castle, the weather had been less than perfect. It was spring, and when he’d been with his family spring meant planting and storms. But here, the weather had been light and cloudless and cool, until today. 

The day had been grey and cloudy, winds kicking up and plucking at his long coat as he’d walked across the grounds. The Beast had made himself scarce, and so Beauty had spent most of the day outside, relishing the change, the potential for a storm. He had been standing on the vast stretch of the back lawn, face tipped up to the swirling grey of the clouds, when a vague movement caught in the corner of his eye.

Beauty turned and saw the Beast. He was up on one on the towers, clinging to the stone face, high enough to be small. As Beauty watched, the Beast flung himself from the tower to the slanted roof of the main building, scrabbling a bit before regaining his balance. 

Beauty stuttered a laugh, more surprised than anything, and set off towards the castle at a run.

As he ran, the Beast galloped across the roof, stopped dead and turned, tail twitching crazily. He was barrelling back the way he came when Beauty darted inside the castle. He pelted across the hall, took the stairs three at a time, stopped to pant, and took off again.

Beauty burst out onto the roof, sweaty and laughing still, in time to see the Beast tear past.

“Beast!” he wheezed, put his hands on his knees, and tried to breath. The Beast, meanwhile, turned wide-eyed to stare and tripped over a shingle. He sprawled headfirst along the roof, smacking bodily into a gargoyle.

“Sonuva  _bitch_ ,” he hollered, and flipped onto his back. “Where the hell did you come from? Holy shit.”

Beauty wiped tears from his eyes and staggered over to the heap of Beast on wobbly legs. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked, sinking down beside him.

“The weather makes me jumpy,” the Beast said, carefully testing his limbs. “I can’t be broody all the time, you know. Beasts quite enjoy stormy weather.”

“Apparently,” Beauty replied.

“Did you see me jump though? I mean, holy cow. I  _nailed_  it.”

“I saw you, all right. You leapt off the tower.” Which, now that Beauty was up here, looked scarily far.

“I saw you, too,” the Beast rumbled, smoothing his mane. “You were looking very emo out there.”

“I- What? Emo? I guess,” Beauty said, looking him over. “Your knees are all bloody, and your nose is skinned,” he pointed out, hovering his finger over the mangled mess of the Beast’s knees.

The Beast jerked away and stood, wincing. “Dude, don’t  _touch_  it. It’s fine. I’m tough.”

“Right,” Beauty rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Well, if you’re done with your leaping and bounding, I’ll take a look at your war wounds and patch them up.”

“One more jump, okay? Then you can play nursemaid.”

“Well, be careful,” Beauty said.

The Beast shot him a toothy smirk and took off, racing on all fours along the roof, long legs stretching out and eating up the ground. At the very edge, he launched himself and Beauty couldn’t help wincing as he hung suspended for one breathless moment between safety and a horrible plunge to his death. And then he was clinging to the tower, claws spread wide and digging into the stone. He stayed there for a moment, Beauty watching carefully, and then flung himself back.

“Pretty awesome, huh?” he rumbled, trotting back.

“Pretty awesome,” Beauty agreed, and headed back inside, the triumphantly grinning Beast close on his heels.

:::

“All right, sit down,” Beauty said, gesturing at the rug in front of the fire. They were in the library, rain beating against the windows. The Beast threw himself down with a growl, tail lashing.

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled.

“Oh, wow, don’t hide your true feelings,” Beauty said, picking up a bowl of warm water from where it was waiting on the mantle. There were bandages and a facecloth waiting with it, so he gathered them up as well. He could feel the weight of the Beast’s ever-hungry eyes on his back.

“I try not to,” the Beast said quietly.

Beauty hummed noncommittally and plunked his supplies down on the rug, dropped down beside them. The Beast was a massive dark presence beside him, gently poking at the raw skin on his nose.

“Don’t touch it,” Beauty said, slapping his hand away, “you’ll only irritate it.”

“I won’t,” the Beast sulked, pouting ridiculously. “You’re the irritating one.”

Beauty dipped the cloth in the basin and grabbed the Beast by his beard. “Now don’t struggle, or I’ll slip and  _accidentally_  take out one of your eyes,” he said, pulling the Beast closer. The Beast’s eyes were green and slightly crossed as he focused in on the washcloth. Beauty patted at the rubbed patch on his nose, and the Beast huffed out a low growl. “Easy now,” Beauty murmured. The Beast was warm under his hand, breath puffing across his face, teeth glinting in the firelight, and Beauty was struck with the fact that he had a  _beast_  by the beard, and giggled.

“Something funny about my pain?” the Beast asked, voice a low rumble.

“I thought you were tough,” Beauty said, pulling the cloth away. The Beast snorted as he cleaned it off and wrung it out. “Time for the knees,” he continued. “Pull up your pants.”

The Beast sighed and yanked them up, exposing the bloody tangles of his furry knees.

“Why do you wear pants anyway?” Beauty asked idly, trying to pull the fur away from the wound while the Beast winced and scowled.

“You’d prefer I walk around naked? Beauty, I had no idea,” the Beast said archly. “Ow, dammit, be careful.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Beauty told him. “And you’ve got  _fur_ , it’s not like anything would be  _showing_ .”

“That’s what you think,” the Beast said smugly, and howled when Beauty pressed particularly hard. “Christ, you sadist.”

“Almost done,” Beauty said, offering an angelic smile. He dropped the cloth back in the bowl and went to work winding the bandages around the knee.

“I can’t feel my foot,” the Beast grumbled, wiggling his toes.

“Hmm, I just realized I forgot to bandage your nose,” Beauty said. He grabbed the Beast’s beard and yanked him forward, wrapping his nose like a muzzle.

The Beast made a muffled sound and scowled, pulling the bandages off. “Very funny,” he groused, snapped his teeth in Beauty’s direction.

“Ooh, very scary,” Beauty said, grinning, and went in for the other knee.

The Beast made huffy noises, growled, showed his teeth, and threw his head back and howled while Beauty patched him up. Beauty just grinned and smacked him on the nose and rolled his eyes.

“All done,” Beauty said finally. “Good as new.”

“I somehow doubt that,” the Beast replied, eyeing his knees. “And you’re not done, you have to kiss it better.”

“Oh my god,” Beauty said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not kissing your knees.” Instead, he tackled the Beast in a bear hug, knocking over the bowl in the process. The Beast let out a soft  _woof_  as they toppled over, and squeezed him back. Beauty laughed, and burrowed his head in the soft fur of his mane, and felt the Beast relax under him.

“Beauty,” the Beast said, soft as a rose petal, and Beauty pulled back enough to see his face. His eyes were wide, freckled green and gold, as they took Beauty in, a smile playing over his sharp mouth.

“Beast,” Beauty answered, just as soft. The Beast’s grin widened, and his eyes darkened, and there came a clap of thunder loud enough to startle them apart. They stared at each other in the firelight until the Beast cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

“Shall we go to dinner?” Beauty asked, quickly. He forced a smile.

“I guess we’d better,” the Beast said, and sighed. 

:::

They were in the gardens one day, discussing the merits of pie versus cake, when the Beast turned abruptly. Beauty had stared up into his green, green eyes, a smile playing on his lips, sure he’d swayed him over to a deeper appreciation of Black Forest.

“Beauty,” the Beast said, suddenly serious. “There are rooms that you shouldn’t go in.” At Beauty’s sceptical expression, he continued, “The castle wouldn’t hurt you, and it’s doubtful that it will ever let you get near a room that  _would_  want to, but still. It’s best to be prepared, right?”

“What is in these rooms, then, that are so dangerous?” Beauty asked, curiosity piqued.

“They are all marked,” the Beast rumbled, looking away. To a patch of clover, he said, “You’ll know it when you see it. And I would ask that you don’t go in. They contain dangers that are beyond my control; things that would kill you if you let them.”

“I’ll be cautious,” Beauty told him, meaning nothing by it, and felt a pang at the Beast’s easy acceptance of his words, his quick, relieved smile. 

They changed the subject, and the Beast watched closely, as always, while Beauty talked. They discussed many things, which is to say that Beauty discussed and the Beast made obscure references and bad jokes, but that night Beauty went to sleep with forbidden discoveries and perilous insights on his mind.

:::

It took him nearly a week to find one, a room that was marked. He’d had to be very firm with the castle, telling it off on more than one occasion, for steering him gently away from certain passages. And every morning it seemed that the layout had been scrambled, familiar rooms and landmarks rearranged so that he had to start fresh daily.

But now, Beauty was staring at a door that he felt sure was one that the Beast had warned him away from. The dark wood was marked with deep gouges, virtual channels dug in deep from raging claws. They ran nearly vertical with a slight diagonal angle to them, as if the Beast had drawn up to his full height and ripped the marks in almost to the floor. It certainly looked fearsome, but Beauty gave himself no time to reconsider, sure that the Beast was being alerted to his presence here even as he stood and deliberated.

Breath stuttering in his chest, heart thumping wildly, Beauty took a hold of the door – the very act of it disturbing, as it was the first door he’d opened since he’d left home – and shoved it open, wincing at the loudly protesting squeal of the hinges.

The room, as he stepped inside, remained dark. Like the rest of the castle, there was no noise, though there was an almost-feeling of life. Beauty’s breath caught, released in a huff, and he took a bare step further in. The door, no longer obstructed, swung shut with a muffled slam.

Beauty swung around, heart jumping into his throat. He settled into a crouch, hands shaking slightly in the deep gloom, and it was then that he heard the breathing. It was quiet, halting under the harsh speed of his own, coming from the other side of the room but drawing steadily closer.

Beauty pressed himself to the door, tugged futilely on the handle, banged on the thick wooden panels, shouted himself hoarse calling for the Beast. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, and in the meantime the breathing was getting louder, wetter, closer.

He swallowed convulsively, certain he could feel hot breath gusting over his throat. Quickly, he darted right, hit the wall and bounced off, one broad palm splayed over the wall as a guide. There was no sound from behind him, and Beauty stopped once he hit the corner. Slowly, the breathing changed, moved closer to the wall and started towards him again.

A dim light had been growing on the other side of the room, something Beauty hadn’t realized he’d been watching until it flared slightly, casting a sickly green film over the floor. Beauty stared at it, unsure if it was a godsend but fairly certain it wasn’t, when the decision was taken out of his hands.

Between one blink and the next, the light flared dully, brightening the room enough to nearly blind him after the darkness. Beauty threw an arm up over his eyes and so missed the light’s sudden swerve toward him. He did not miss the bolts of pains that swarmed over his body, liquid glass crawling through his veins as flashes of another’s life swam in front of his eyes.

A woman, coldly beautiful and glowing in the gloom, loomed up in front of him. “You, Dean, are completely unlovable,” she said, icy voice echoing weirdly. “Let your exterior match the disgusting state of your soul.” Agony ripped through him as her laugh faded into the darkness.

The bare reflection of the edge of a furred face, vaguely dark in a polished table, and then Beauty was bent double, retching around the unfamiliar curve of his teeth, hands clenched into claws on the carpet.

A scene of tranquility, a happy family frolicking through long grass while Beauty’s point of view crouched low, desperate not to be seen. He focused in on a young man, face split in a smile, and felt such a powerful wave of longing that it left him breathless.

Curled into a ball, surrounded only by darkness, hatred and self-loathing thick in the air, the feeling of a knife skating icy over his pulse, unable to follow through, sick and so alone.

His own face staring back at him, pathetically brave over a plate of pie, a pale smudge lit by fire. The hope that welled up, the relief that he couldn’t quite understand, the sheer  _terror_  of being faced with what he had been craving for  _years_ , dammit, years and years and years, what no decade in a damned greenhouse could cure him of–

“Sam.”

Beauty felt a massive hand grip his shoulder, pulling him up and out of the flashes, the pain, the room. He was gathered up, dry heaving, and with the sudden shock of the clean air from the hall he was gone, head lolling limply against a broad chest.

:::

Beauty woke up wrapped in his comforter, eyes bleary and sore. He’d been crying, he was pretty sure, and his head was pounding. Someone was combing his hair, smooth strokes soothing him.

“Faith?” he asked, voice raspy. Then his eyes focused, and he saw the Beast above him, face concerned. It was his hand in Beauty’s hair, claws gentle on his scalp. “Oh,” he said, “Beast.”

“Yes,” the Beast said, voice so quiet he felt it more than heard it. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” Beauty murmured. The Beast’s hand stilled. “Keep going,” Beauty urged, and sighed happily when he started back up. “What just happened?”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” the Beast told him. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yes, I’m okay,” Beauty said, settling deeper into the covers. “Sorry for scaring you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do,” the Beast said quietly, “if something happened to you.”

“Nothing’ll happen,” Beauty slurred, and fell asleep with the Beast’s fingers in his hair, his wild scent in his nose.

:::

The next day, they were in the library, exploring the mythology section and laughing over the antics of Tricksters.

“Oh, um,” the Beast said, suddenly switching gears. “I read something the other day. And I thought you’d like it.”

“Yeah?” Beauty prompted, looking up from Anthony Santos’  _Myths of the Native Americans_ .

“The pearly treasures of the sea,” the Beast began, voice low and bourbon-smooth. “The lights that spatter heaven above, more precious than these wonders are, my heart-of-hearts filled with your love.”

“Wow,” Beauty said. “That was the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Right, that’s what I thought,” the Beast said, eyes firmly on the book in Beauty’s hand. He chomped his teeth a few times.  “Oh look, Coyote versus Duck.”

:::

“So,” Beauty said over dinner about a week later, having finally summoned up the courage to ask. “What the hell was up with that room?”

The Beast paused from picking his teeth. “You mean the room that I expressly told you not to go in, but you went in anyway? And then nearly died? And I had to save you?”

“Um, yeah,” Beauty said, feeling guilty.

“Well,” the Beast said. He shifted around a bit, eyes going shifty. “The rooms, or, the room, I guess, it. Um. The room holds memories.”

“Memories,” Beauty said flatly. “I was attacked by a memory?”

“You got it, Pontiac,” the Beast rumbled, labouring so hard for nonchalance it was painful to watch. “It’s all the stuff I don’t want floating around in my head. I push it out, it ends up in the room. Sometimes I visit; otherwise it ends up in my head again, usually at a bad time.”

“Oh,” Beauty said, at a loss.

“Yeah,” the Beast said.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“What’d you see?” the Beast asked finally.

“Nothing,” Beauty answered quickly. He thought of the shame, the loneliness, the longing, and shook his head emphatically.

“Oh, cool,” the Beast said, and went back to picking his teeth.

Later, Beauty lay awake long into the night, thinking it over. He thought about icy queens, deeply silent rooms, and his own pale face. He thought about the staring, and the gardens, and the poem, and the story of the family that originally lived in the castle.

And he thought about Dean; he thought about the Beast.


	4. Chapter 4

He found the Beast staring at him at odd times.

When he ate, the Beast watched him. When he was messing around with the flowers in the East Garden – the only garden he was allowed to mess around in, actually – the Beast watched him. When he read aloud, or looked at paintings, or stooped to tie his boot, the Beast watched him. He’d woken up on several occasions to see the Beast staring down at him, green eyes unreadable. “Hey,” the Beast would say. “I brought you coffee.” Except he wouldn’t move away, just sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Beauty drank his coffee and ate his toast.

And Beauty found himself enjoying it. Found himself craving the attention, seeking it, guarding the Beast’s focus jealously. Not that he had to try that hard – he was the only other living thing in the castle, after all.

And then again, Beauty not only noticed that the Beast was staring, but that he was staring back. His own staring was perhaps more understandable, since the Beast was a giant furry magical talking beast, while Beauty was just an ordinary guy. (Although the Beast didn’t really get out much, so maybe it didn’t take a lot to impress him.)

Beauty would watch the Beast grooming himself, and smile as a little knot of concentration showed up on his brow as he worked on a particularly persistent tangle. He watched as the Beast pounced on shadows and growled at threatening plants in his more playful moods. But he didn’t just  _watch_ ; he thought it was  _cute_ . Odder still, Beauty found himself  _sketching_  the Beast on a sheet of paper, and ended up pushing it away half-finished, concerned for his own mental health.

“What’s this supposed to be?” the Beast asked later, when he had found it while rooting through the papers on Beauty’s desk.

“Shut up,” Beauty grumbled from the bed, sticking his head under a pillow.

“No, no,” the Beast said, holding it sideways, “it’s a wolf, right? A wolf wearing pants?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm. A lion?”

“No, God. Shut up.”

“I’m gonna get this,” the Beast said, roughly. He cocked his head at it. “It’s a ninja?”

Beauty got off the bed and stalked over, snatching the paper out of the Beast’s hands. “It’s  _you_ , dumbass,” he said, stabbing it with a finger.

The Beast rolled his eyes. “I knew that,” he said, grabbing the paper back. “But you forgot my horns. I’d’ve got it right away if you’d put the horns on.”

“You can barely see them for the fur,” Beauty told him crossly, trying to get the paper. The Beast held him off with one arm, eyes still on the now-blurry sketch. Beauty danced around to a different angle, but the Beast just stretched to hold it above his head.

“God dammit, Beast,” Beauty said, and dove to tackle his knees. They hit the ground in a heap, and Beauty went for the Beast’s soft spot: his ribs. He’d discovered fairly early on that tickling the Beast’s ribs had him limp with laughter in seconds, so he went with what worked.

Some time later, the Beast was laughing so hard the desk was vibrating with it, and Beauty was about ready to pee his pants.

“Truce,” he called, and both opponents rolled warily off one another, both having gained reputations for dirty fighting. Beauty flopped onto his back, breathing heavily. The Beast staggered over to the desk and dropped heavily into the chair, which groaned mightily but held.

“Too much pie, fatass,” Beauty said weakly, still trying to catch his breath.

“Your language has certainly gone downhill,” the Beast remarked. He smoothed the sketch carefully and tucked it into his jacket.

“And whose fault is that?” Beauty asked snidely.

But the Beast wasn’t paying attention; he was dipping his claw into the inkpot and pulling a sheet of paper towards him. He scribbled something, ripped through the paper, started again. Slower this time, methodical. Focused in a way Beauty rarely saw.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, raising his head from the floor. The Beast ignored him, chuckling a little at whatever it was he was doing. Beauty sighed and dragged himself over, propping himself on the Beast’s leg. He tipped his head onto the Beast’s knee and waved an arm over his head. “Gimme,” he said, smacking the Beast lightly on the chest.

The Beast hummed happily, purring almost, and tapped Beauty on the forehead with his inky claw.

“Ow,” Beauty said idly, and swiped at his head.

“Uh oh,” the Beast rumbled, “you’ve got ink on your head. Let me just –”

And with that as a warning, he hauled Beauty up by the head and licked a wet stripe across his forehead. Beauty squawked and flailed, laughing as the Beast put him in a headlock. The Beast settled in, chair creaking, and started  _grooming_  him, rough tongue pulling his hair straight up.

“Stop it,” Beauty shouted, muffled by the Beast’s arm. “You’re  _disgusting_ .”

The Beast hummed happily, practically purring in Beauty’s ear. “You look much better,” he rumbled, sitting back smugly.

“Cripes,” Beauty said, pulling a face. Gingerly, he patted his head, feeling the crazy spikes and cowlicks his hair had been pulled into and burst out laughing.

They’d gone to dinner after that, and then the library, and when Beauty came back, he was exhausted. He’d passed by the desk on his way to the bed, eyes bleary but alert enough to catch sight of the paper that the Beast had left behind. There was a doodle on it, firm lines nothing like Beauty’s messy sketch. It was Beauty, or something like him – it was obvious that the Beast had about as much talent as Beauty himself, which was to say very little. But the Beast’s Beauty was standing on a pile of books, big cartoon grin on his face, a cape fluttering out behind him. In one hand he held a sword, and in the other he held a rose.

Beauty wasn’t sure what it meant, but he liked it.

:::

They’d fallen asleep together one night, after a long conversation about farming techniques. Beauty had woken up with the Beast spooned around him like a giant hairy blanket, rumbling snores into his ear. The fire had almost burned itself out, and the library was dark save for the small area of rug still lit by its dim glow. He and the Beast were wrapped around each other on the flickering edge of the pool of light, the Beast’s jacket balled up under their heads. Beauty, chilled and not really awake, murmured sleepily and shifted back into the Beast’s furry warmth.

The Beast stopped snoring. “Cold?” he growled lowly, voice wilder than ever. Without waiting for an answer, which Beauty was grateful for, he snaked a powerful arm around him and tugged him closer.

Beauty lay there with the Beast’s huge chest breathing against his back, and felt sleepy and warm, inside and out.

:::

In the late fall, Beauty walked into the dining room as usual and would’ve been shocked, except for the fact that after months in an enchanted castle, he was kind of beyond that.

The room was shining with candles, while the fireplace roared cheerfully in the background. The table, usually a sight to behold, was laid out magnificently; there was a  _lacy tablecloth_ , even.

Beauty became aware of the Beast’s presence behind him and turned, eyebrows raised. “What’s all this, then?”

The Beast did his uncomfortable shifting routine, and cleared his throat. “Um,” he said. “Wanna eat?”

They sat, and Beauty ate considerably less than he usually did. The Beast was clearly on edge, staring intensely at Beauty and tapping his claw against his teeth, the sound regular enough not to be  _quite_ grating.

“I’m done,” Beauty said finally, pushing away from the table. He’d caught the Beast’s nervous mood, and his stomach was twisting around the triple glazed citrus chicken.

“Why don’t we go for a walk, then?” the Beast put in immediately.

“Uh, sure,” Beauty agreed, and was swept off to the gardens.

:::

They ended up sprawled out on the grass, the Beast taking up considerably more room than Beauty. The roses were nodding gently in the autumn breeze, and the Beast was huffing a laugh at something he’d said. They were at angles, shoulders touching, and Beauty could feel the Beast’s heat, warmer than summer, seeping into him.

“I’m pretty sure that that one’s the Drunken Monkey,” the Beast rumbled, pointing at a clump of stars. “See its tail? And the beer bottle?”

“No no no,” Beauty countered, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s definitely a carrot.”

“Mmm,” the Beast murmured, “pie.”

“What?” Beauty asked, laughing.

“Carrots,” the Beast said, waving his finger, “are  _shaped_  like pie. Or a slice of pie, anyway.”

They both fell silent, eventually, and Beauty stared at the stars, remembering a long-ago time when he’d been too tired by the end of the day to watch a sunset. But the Beast was sighing beside him, ear flicking against his head, and the nervousness of earlier came creeping back.

He listened as the Beast shifted against the grass, swallowing loudly. His claws were twitching between them, stealing closer to Beauty before being yanked back to his side. He kept gulping, and twitching, and making aborted movements, until Beauty had had enough.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?” he asked finally, after a particularly awkward cough from the Beast. “You’re suddenly adverse to silence?”

“I–” The Beast broke off quickly, and heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s dumb.”

Beauty sat up and put his hand on the Beast’s chest, watching his eyes widen almost comically. “Seriously,” he said, borrowing a pet phrase of the Beast’s. “What is it?”

The Beast hesitantly raised a hand and covered his, claw tapping gently on the silver ring, and Beauty had to fight the urge to pull away and laugh it off, hit suddenly with the absolute gravity of the situation. The Beast swallowed again, looking soft and open, teeth and eyes sparkling dully in the moonlight. “I’ve, um. I’ve kind of fallen in love with you. Well, not kind of. I have. And I was wondering, hoping, that you’d marry me, Sam.”

Under his palm, Beauty – Sam – could feel the Beast’s heart thundering, and thought he might very well throw up.

“Marry you?” he said, and heard his voice break.’ “I mean,  _marry_  you? Marry  _you_ ? Oh Beast. I can’t.”

The Beast’s face shut down, slammed shut so fast Sam wasn’t sure if it had ever been open. Between one breath and the next he was standing, chest heaving, fur raised up in spikes. Sam watched his claws clench into his palms as he scrambled upright.

“Beast, I mean, I didn’t– you caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” the Beast rumbled, eyes on the blood slipping slowly out of his fists. “I’ll being leaving now.”

And he was gone, loping off across the grounds, back towards the castle.

Sam was left standing among the roses, hands open and empty.

:::

The next few days were awkward, which was a vast, terrible understatement. Sam spent most of his time in his room. He wasn’t afraid to leave, but his room was the only place in the castle that didn’t cast off a chilly vibe. When he ventured out, candles burned dimmer, doors opened slower, paintings stared at him more accusingly than ever. And he could  _feel_  the Beast avoiding him.

He didn’t eat dinner anymore.

:::

One afternoon, as he was napping, killing time until it was late enough that he could go to sleep, Sam had a dream.

_ Hope stood in the kitchen, one hand pressed to her mouth, crying. The scene shifted, pulled back from her face, and Beauty saw her Andy kneeling at her feet, slipping a ring onto her finger. _

_ “Will you marry me?” he asked. _

_ “Yes, oh Andy, of course I will,” she cried through her tears, and Andy’s mouth stretched into a grin. He leapt to his feet and the couple embraced, laughing. _

_ And then Beauty was being pulled out the door, into the garden out back. It had roses, he noted, and then he saw Faith. _

_ She was pulling Ash into a kiss, mumbling ‘Yes, yes,’ against his mouth, a slim golden band glinting on her finger. _

_ Hope ran out to join them, and the sisters clutched and jumped and cried while Andy and Ash shook hands and beamed. _

Sam woke up crying.

:::

The next night, Sam dreamt again.

_ He saw his father this time, sinking down onto one knee in the darkened pub. Ellen gasped, and burst out laughing, smacking his shoulder. _

_ “You old dog!” she yelled, and pulled him standing. “You’re too old to kneel, get up before you hurt your back.” _

_ John threw back his head and laughed as the younger couples giggled behind him. “Marry me, Ellen. Give me the honour.” _

_ “I’m really too old for these stunts,” Ellen said, “but dammit John Winchester, I’ll marry you.” _

_ Ash whooped and did a loose-limbed jig while Andy drummed a beat on the bar. Jo, Hope and Faith clapped and cheered. _

_ “Good thing,” John said, looking happier than Beauty had ever seen him, “because the preacher’s coming in two days, and I told him he had three ceremonies to perform.” _

_ “I wish Beauty were here,” Hope said suddenly. The others quieted down immediately, until Jo marched resolutely behind the bar. _

_ She poured out seven mugs of ale and waited until everyone had their own. Raising hers, she said quietly, “To Beauty, wherever he is.” _

_ “To Beauty,” the others echoed lowly, and drank. _

When Sam woke up, he vowed to talk to the Beast.

:::

It took most of the day to track down the Beast, and when he found him Sam almost wished he hadn’t. The Beast was sitting slumped on the floor in the middle of the hall that had once held a lone portrait of a handsome, if cruel, young man. There was a lighter patch on the wall where it had once been, and the splintered remains of the frame were strewn about the hall. 

:::

If the Beast heard him approach, he gave no notice.

“Beast,” Sam said. “My family is getting married. I need to go home. I haven’t asked for anything before, but surely you can let me go home for this.”

The Beast heaved a sigh and drew a pattern on the floor. His hands were bandaged, Sam noticed, and fought down the urge to run a hand through the Beast’s pelt.

“Please, Beast,” Sam tried again.

Without looking up, the Beast growled, “Go, then. If it’s so important to you.” He looked up, then, and Sam staggered back a step at the open look of pain in his green eyes.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly, and turned away from that horrible gaze.

He was three steps down the hall when, “Wait,” the Beast called. When Sam turned, his eyes were back on the ground.

“Sam,” he rumbled, not looking up from the floor.

“Yes, Beast?”

“You have one week. Come back to me. Please.”

“Of course,” Sam lied, and fled.

:::

Sam packed rapidly, throwing handfuls of clothes into his saddlebags, which had reappeared on his bed. The wardrobe was sluggish, and slammed on his hands if he wasn’t fast enough.

“I’ll be back,” he told it, tossing the words over his shoulder as he left the room.

And then he was running through the castle, down halls that twisted more than they should, until finally, he was out the door and onto the grounds.

Just before he passed through the gates, he heard a terrible roar echo through the stillness.

The gates stood open well after Beauty was gone.

:::

He made it back to town just in time to catch the tail end of his father’s wedding, John’s face beaming like the sun while Ellen stood serene. The couple stood aside while the priest wed Hope and Andy, and then Faith and Ash. Beauty stood in the back and smiled, watching Jo cry in the front row, and his sisters cling to their new husbands, and his father stroke a hand down his wife’s back.

He slipped out again before they left, not wanting to ruin their moment with his unexpected presence, and stole back to the little family cottage to wait. An addition had been built on the back, but the house still seemed small. Beauty paced from room to room, noting changes, signs that his family had gotten on with their lives without him.

For the first time, he began to doubt his presence here. He wondered about the Beast, alone in his castle with only his rage and his roses, and pondered the wisdom of leaving him. He twisted the ring on his finger and thought about marriage, about having to leave his family again in one short week, about the beautiful prison and the lonely warden that waited for him.

And then his family – larger now, complete – walked in the door, and his concerns were swept away at the sight of their dear, delighted faces.

:::

Beauty spent that first day catching up, explaining his presence, hugging and kissing and basking in their love, so different from that of the Beast. Hope remarked that he’d certainly grown, which he had: he towered over his sisters now, and had to stoop to go through the low doorways. And Jo mentioned teasingly that he’d certainly gotten handsome. Beauty had blushed and sputtered and had to be shown to a mirror, where he noted with consternation that something about the Beast’s castle had apparently agreed with him, for he was broader, stronger, and perhaps slightly better looking than when he’d left. The Beast, he noted, was right: something about his green shirt made him look rather dashing.

He found himself having to explain the meanings of words he’d picked up from the Beast, words he was unaware of using. His father and family stared at him in confusion until he’d stopped talking. When words were necessary, he thought them over carefully, grooming them until they were easy to understand. Until they were normal.

He found himself longing for the ease of his conversations with the Beast, words flowing from both of them with little thought about how they would be received. His family’s talk bored him, he discovered abruptly, after yawning his way through another report about how crop prices were increasing. He used to  _enjoy_  this sort of conversation, would actively debate the pros and cons of crop rotation, and now. Well. 

Now Beauty found himself biting his lips to keep from smiling as he thought about the time he’d tried to introduce Milton to the Beast and had to wrestle him to keep him from eating  _Paradise Lost_  out of disgust, while his father talked of how much a bushel of wheat was worth.

:::

It wasn’t until the second day that Beauty told them he had only five days left. Hope cried, and Faith clung to Ash, and his father went tight-lipped.

“What could that monster possibly want with you,” he ground out. “You’ve been gone for  _months_ , Beauty. Is he so jealous of your time that you are let out for a  _week_ ?”

“He’s not a monster,” Beauty mumbled, feeling something slippery twist in his belly. “He’s just… lonely.”

“Lonely?” Jo sneered. She’d learned the truth of his disappearance long ago, explained by a sombre John to the four of them in the sitting room where he’d once told his own children of his meeting with the monster. “What a load of rubbish. He’s not lonely, he’s cruel: keeping you away from your family and friends, locking you up in a castle.”

Beauty found himself at a loss, unsure of how to defend the Beast, of how to defend himself for finding happiness with him. “He’s really very sweet,” he said, and found himself relating the story of the Beast convincing him to slide down the banister, how he’d fallen off and twisted his ankle; how they’d  _laughed_ .

But his family just stared at him like he’d lost his mind, like he’d been infected and brainwashed in his time away from them. Like he wasn’t quite  _theirs_  anymore, and Beauty realized with a pang that really, he wasn’t.

So he stopped talking of the Beast to them. Turned the conversation instead to developments in town and their plans for the future. He apologised for interrupting the honeymoon, and listened to gossip, and helped Ellen with the cooking.

The next five days passed in a blur of laughter and love and slightly awkward silence, and Beauty managed to forget about his promise to return to the Beast. 

On the seventh day, when he should have been on the way home, he spent the day with his father and Ash, tramping through the bare fields. There was a niggling worry at the back of his mind, something he ought to be doing, but Beauty didn’t bother to examine the thought too closely.

:::

On the morning of the eighth day, Beauty woke up to slow-falling snow. He yawned and rolled over, certain there was something he ought to be doing. He stood and shuffled into the kitchen, intent on getting something to drink, and idly twisted the heavy silver ring on his finger.

The headache hit out of nowhere: splitting pain arcing from temple to temple, pulsing behind his eyes, pushing against his teeth, his entire head throbbing from it. His head felt three sizes too small to contain it, energy pulsing heavy against his skull. He let out a deep groan, eyes clamped shut, but the headache was relentless, driving him to his knees. He clutched his head in his hands, squeezing hard, as if it would help to keep his head together. Maybe keep it on. 

Dimly, he heard people running into the kitchen, their worried voices grating over him, felt concerned hands on his back as if from a distance. He grabbed at them mindlessly, needing something under his hands. But his mind was being drawn inexorably away: out the door, across the back fields, through the forest and along the fading path to the castle. He flew through the halls, up stairs, around corners, slowing only when he came to the hallway where he’d left the Beast over a week ago. He was still there, slumped still and near-silent on his side, big chest drawing laboured breaths. Sam tried to call out to him, to touch him, but he couldn’t – no body, no voice. The Beast was whining through his exhales, thready and broken, like some kind of  _animal_ , and Sam flinched away from the pain in it.

The Beast opened his eyes slowly, breath coming in short gasps as he locked eyes with Sam. “You said you’d come back,” he whispered.

“I will, Beast, I will,” Sam said, frantic, but the Beast’s eyes were rolling back in his head, white under his eyelids, and Sam was being pulled back.

He opened his eyes with a wrenching gasp, starting off the floor and into his father’s arms.

“Beauty, what happened?” John asked, face a perfect picture of concern.

“I have to go,” Sam said feverishly, pushing him away. “I need to get back.” He stood, looking frantically for his pants, ignoring the worried murmurs of his family. “He’s  _dying_ ,” he shouted, and that shut them up.

“Here, Beauty, get dressed,” Ash said, holding out his clothes. “We’ll get you there.”

By the time Sam managed to pull his clothes on, Andy had saddled his mare and was waiting. The rest of the family clustered around him as he swung up behind.

“We love you, Beauty. We just want you to be happy,” Faith said, squeezing his hand. “If he makes you happy, that is what truly matters.”

“I love you,” Sam told them, “but I can’t ever leave him again.”

And with that, Andy kneed the horse into a gallop, and they were off. Sam held on and resisted the urge to plead with Andy to go faster, to try and wrestle the reins away and do it himself. They made it into the forest and then Sam was off the horse, bidding goodbye to Andy, and staggering through the woods himself.

He’d fallen asleep the last time and had no idea where he was going, but his vision had shown him a path through the woods, fading but still visible, so Sam looked for that. He flailed around in the underbrush for hours, getting more and more frantic as time went on. He called out for the Beast, for some kind of help, whispering promises into the cold grey air.

By the time he found his way to the path, it was almost nightfall. Sam broke into a run, his exhausted legs trembling beneath him. Finally,  _finally_ , he was at the gates, which stood still and closed before him. The rose bushes at the entrance were nearly dead, roses drooping limply from their stems, green leaves browning at the edges. As Sam drew in a shaky breath a petal dropped off and drifted slowly to the snow at his feet. Sam grit his teeth and turned away, grabbing the gates and heaving them open, hinges squealing in protest. The castle loomed massive and forbidding in front of him, and this was nothing like the first time, nothing at all.

He burst through the front door, into the dark castle. No candles lit at his entrance, and Sam stepped up the pace. He took the stairs three at a time, boots skittering on the stone floors. The castle was heavy and silent around him, a pressure lying heavy across his shoulders.

“Beast?” he called, voice echoing through the darkening castle. “Come on, Beast, where are you?”

The hallway where he’d left the Beast was eluding him, just out of his grasp no matter where he turned. It was dead dark by the time he started to recognise where he was, and he managed to find the hallway after two false starts. Sam felt his way along the walls, moving inch by agonisingly slow inch until he caught sight of a flickering glow. He broke into a trot at the sight, tripped over the edge of a rug, stood up and ran again, his love beating in him like something alive. It made him feel sick, the pressure of it pushing on his chest, driving him to find the Beast, to tell him, to fix him and love him and never let him go.

A dark lump, so massive it could only be the Beast, lay on the far edge of a lone candle’s flame. The candle had almost burnt itself out, guttering in a pool of wax as he blew past it. Sam dropped to his knees at the Beast’s side, hands pressing into the Beast’s shoulder, his arm, rolling onto his back.

“Beast, come on, wake up,” Sam urged, voice climbing desperately. “Wake up, dammit, I’m here, I’m back. I’m home.”

“Hey Sam,” the Beast said weakly, without opening his eyes. “You’re back.”

“Of course I’m back,” Sam said, running his fingers through the fur on the Beast’s face. “I told you I’d come back, and I’m back.”

“I thought I’d never see you again,” the Beast whispered.

“You’re not so lucky,” Sam told him, “to get rid of me that easily.”

The Beast chuckled weakly, quickly degenerating into hacking coughs. “You’re such a geek,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam said. He took off the Beast’s cloak, loosened his shirt, tried to make him more comfortable. He could feel the Beast labouring for breath under him, ribcage expanding weakly. “I’m here.”

They sat like that for a bit, the Beast gasping as Sam watched worriedly.  “You’ll get better, won’t you Beast?”

The Beast coughed at him, which Sam took for a ‘no.’ Sam swallowed, guilt twisting hot in his gut.

“Don’t die, all right?” he said. “Because I’d be pretty sad.” Below him, the Beast opened his eyes, a glint of green in the dark. “I’d be the saddest guy in the world.”

The silence lengthened, spinning out like a dropped ball of wool. “Beast, I love you. And I’ll marry you, if that’s what you want, but you seriously can’t die, because I’d definitely cry and I do enough of that as it is.”

“You do cry a lot,” the Beast said, voice already firmer. “But I didn’t quite hear that first bit.”

Sam grinned. “I said, I love you, you giant bearded freak. I love you a whole lot.”

“Still can’t hear you,” the Beast told him, grinning back.

Sam leaned in close, planting his hand on the Beast’s shoulder and put his lips next to the Beast’s ear. “I said, I love you, you jerk.” And he pressed a kiss to the bridge of the Beast’s nose.

The shoulder under his hand shifted suddenly, knocking Sam off balance. A sudden light flared beneath him, a sharp stab in the eyes after the dark of the hall. The candle winked out from the force of it, and Sam was thrown back against the far wall.

There was a crazy sound then, and the light started to fade. Sam was left wincing and blinking against the afterimage fading blue on his eyelids. The hall was lit with sunlight and the sound of birdsong filled his ears.

“Whoa,” said a voice from in front of him. “That was pretty intense.”

As Sam’s eyes cleared, he was faced with a young man,  _the_  young man, staring back at him. He was older than he was in the painting, older than Sam, but not by much. His hair stood up in sweaty clumps, and the Beast’s clothes were draped loosely around him.

Sam propped himself up on his elbows. “Where’s the Beast?” he asked, voice raspy.

“Dude,” the other man said, “I  _am_  the Beast.”

“You’re not,” Sam told him. “You’re someone else.”

“Jeez,” the man said. “There’s gratitude for you. I transform into a man, and a handsome man at that, all for you, and all you want is a hideous beast.”

Sam stared at him.

“Hello, earth to Sam? Remember? I read you poetry? You drew a lion-pig and said it was me? You kissed my  _nose_  just now?”

Sam crawled over to him.  He touched his face, ran his fingers through his hair, around the shell of his ears. He looked into the wide green eyes that stared back at him and saw his Beast.

“Freaky, right?” the Beast said. “Wanna make out?”

“What? No!” Sam yelped. “For one thing, I don’t even know your name.”

The Beast frowned, thinking. “It’s been awhile,” he said in a voice with less rumble now, in the smaller body, “since anyone called me by my name.”

“It’s Dean, isn’t it?” Sam asked, remembering the icy witch of the Beast’s memories.

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly. “That’s right.”

“Huh,” Sam said.

Dean shifted nervously, a gesture so Beast-like Sam nearly laughed. “I still love you,” Dean said eventually. “Y’know, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Sam told him. “I mean, I still love you too.”

Dean squinted at him, then reached for him slowly. Sam was still as Dean wrapped his arms around him, pulled him gently into a hug. Then he moved, hugging him back, eyes wet in the hollow of Dean’s neck. The love he’d felt earlier, so new and yet deeply familiar, was still there, beating along with his heart, and he’d never tell it to Dean, never try to put it into words. But it was there, had probably been there a lot longer than Sam knew, and Sam just breathed Dean in and smiled.

“It’s nice to have you back,” Dean said gruffly, hands smoothing circles along Sam’s back.

“It’s nice to be back,” Sam replied, and brushed his lips against the tense lines of Dean’s neck. Dean’s hands framed his face and pulled him up, lips gently insistent on Sam’s jaw, his cheek, and finally, _finally_ , his lips.

The sun shone harder, the birds sang louder, the roses bloomed in the gardens, and Sam and Dean kissed.

And they lived happily ever after.


End file.
